


Happy Christmas

by Ladycat



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But Wes isn’t a stereotype to cater to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Christmas

The timing’s all wrong. Angel knows that. He knows that what he’s _doing_ is all wrong, because what does he know about this kind of thing, anyway? He can break a person’s mind down to easily handleable blocks in seconds, know each weak fault in their minds, which emotions to twist and tug just the right ways, Angelus’ legacy in Angel’s intuition. But those blocks are built on pain and the threat of pain, not understanding. Not wanting to share, or please, or be _nice_ , the way Angel wants to be now.

The only way he knows how to be nice are cliches, things he’s learned through stereotypes reaffirmed through over a century.

But Wes isn’t a stereotype to cater to. 

He’s also not female. Angel’s not exactly hung up on that point, but it’s becoming trickier to navigate around than he’s thought it would be.

Still, Angel watches the flame go from orange to yellow, catching on the slender candle he lights. Dinner smells good, he thinks, even if it is just take away from the Indian place around the corner. It makes the rooms spicy and exotic.

“Angel?” Wes footsteps echo down the hallway, the scent of his cologne a richer undertone with the sweetness of the food. Wes likes woodsy scents, things that mix well with the parchment and manuscripts he surrounds himself with. “Cordelia said you were—oh. Oh, my.”

Angel tries not to shift awkwardly or hunch his shoulders like a nervous schoolboy. Wesley is technically a breath taller than he is, but the slender length of his body always makes Angel feel like a hulking wrestler standing uncomfortably next to refinement. Next to class.

He doesn’t like to think it’s got something to do with his own Irish roots and Wesley’s thoroughly English ones, but he’s not about to discount that, either. 

Wesley inhales slowly, eyes traveling around the room. It’s not ostentatious. Angel’s pretty sure he can’t _do_ ostentatious when something this important is on the line. Just a garland over the mantle, holly sprigs strategically placed here and there, maybe a hint of tinsel or cranberries on flatter surfaces. The candles burn on a table artfully draped with a silvery tablecloth, Wesley fingering the edges as he takes he takes in the—

Angel winces. The _styrofoam containers_ that rest on their plates.

“Uh,” he says, hurriedly trying to come up with some explanation.

Wesley smiles him quiet, opening the container on ‘his’ plate and inhaling appreciatively. “I assume Cordelia handled the decorations?”

“What? No, why would you—” Angel slumps at Wesley’s arched eyebrow. “She made me promise not to say yes. She also said that if you _didn’t_ know then you didn’t deserve it.”

“Ah. That does sound like our Cordelia.” He makes a circuit around the table, taking in the wine glasses both filled with dark red liquid, even though only one is wine, and comes to rest inside Angel’s personal space. It’s almost an aggressive move for Wesley, and it takes effort not to react. “Angel. Is this for me?”

He points to the small wrapped gift on what should be Wesley’s chair. Angel winces again. “It’s, um. The first?”

Wesley’s eyes light up, shedding the growing confidence he’s gained over the last year, instead looking like the stuffy, uptight young man Angel was first introduced to, the one who was always amazed when good things came his way, a unexpected delight.

Like the gentle, chaste kiss Wesley gives him. His lips are warm and taste like apple cider.

Angel gapes as Wesley pulls back. “Uh. Was that?”

“That,” Wesley tells him, primly putting his gift on the table before taking his seat. Angel pushes his chair in automatically, earning a glare tinged with warm laughter, “was my first gift to you. Now, it’d be a shame to let this meal get cold, don’t you think? Sit, Angel. You’ll get the rest of your gifts afterwards.”

The rest of his—Angel can’t help but stare a moment longer. Wesley is completely relaxed, opening containers and dishing portions out for both of them. Except. Except Angel can see the faintest blush on his cheeks. He can smell the first faint hints of anticipation, salty-sweet like lust but with a softer edge to it.

And he can see Wesley’s eyes. Warm and amused and _happy_. Or at least, they are until Wesley realizes Angel isn’t sitting.

“Well?”

“Right.” Angel scrambles for his chair, almost breaking it as he sits too hard. It’s worth it, though, when Wes starts laughing at him. “So, not to be obtuse but—”

“My answer’s yes, of course. Why on earth did you think Cordelia left so early, otherwise?”

“The party on Rodeo she’s been talking about for the last two weeks?”

“Yes, the party that doesn’t start until _ten o’clock_ tonight?” Wesley sips his wine and then starts eating with a gusto Angel’s always enjoyed. He may maintain the impression of an English fop, but Wesley wasn’t anything of the kind. “Please, Angel. She’s not dense, our Cordelia. Neither am I.”

It’s—is he—Angel forces himself to swollen his bite of vindaloo rather than choke on it. “So... yes?”

Wesley’s too far away to kiss him, but something in his smile sends phantom, apple cider-scent pressure ghosting across Angel’s mouth anyway. “Of course my answer is yes.

Oh.

“Although I must say, I didn’t know you had it in you to be this romantic. I might’ve made you work harder, if I’d known.”

The only response for that is to throw something, and Angel doesn’t care that he’s grinning like a loon as bread soars through the air.


End file.
